A Ghost in Me
by Madj
Summary: AU. Killian Jones is a master thief, known only as Hook. His life is complicated when he's asked to steal a necklace from security expert Emma Swan, and it opens up their shared past. Captain Swan.
1. Chapter 1

_Something is happening, something bad is coming, and the boy can feel fear in the air._

_The atmosphere throughout the castle is heavy. Oppressive. The boy likes that word. He enjoys big words, likes the feel of them in his mouth. He likes to know things; he likes the way the king laughs in surprise when he shows off a new word. When the king claps him on the back and says "well done," he feels happy and proud, like he belongs to something. Almost like part of a family again, something he hasn't felt since his brother died._

_He knows he is lucky; not many orphan boys are allowed to share a tutor with a princess, and Master Jiminy has much to teach despite being a cricket. He never makes the boy feel like he's different or less important than his royal classmate._

_But even the teacher won't tell him what's going on now._

_He is only 8 years old, trusted to keep pots and pans clean in the kitchens but not to hear the truth. ("Let the adults worry about it," he is told.) His small size, though, means he can slip among the adults in the castle and pick up bits and pieces on his own. The Evil Queen, Regina, plans to cast a curse on them all. She wants to take away their happiness. There is something about the little princess, too, but the details aren't clear._

_The whispers make him afraid. He doesn't want anything to happen to the girl. She is his friend, and she never treats him as though she's better than he is, even though he knows she is. She is only 6, a pretty girl with long golden curls who would rather climb a tree than have a tea party. She likes to play sword fighting with him and go on pretend adventures in the castle and the gardens outside. Once, they climb the tallest tree in the gardens and pretend it is a beanstalk. After they have an epic battle with an imaginary giant, she tells him that when they are older, her father will teach them both __**real**__ sword fighting and they can go on __**real**__ adventures together. _

_They've been forbidden to go outside now, so they are in the princess's playroom, clashing wooden swords together, when the king and queen rush in. The queen is dressed as he's never seen her, in pants and a tunic with her long, dark hair tied back. She carries a bow and has a quiver of arrows on her back and a long knife at her waist. _

"_You take her to the wardrobe," the queen says. "I'll hold them off."_

_The king turns to them, studying the boy with serious eyes. "I'll take them both."_

_He turns back to his queen, and the boy has the peculiar idea that they are having a conversation without words. After a moment, the woman nods and touches her hand to the king's face. She kneels down and takes off the pendant she always wears — a flower of gold with an emerald at the center— and clasps it around her daughter's neck. She pulls the crying girl into a tight hug, whispering something the boy can't hear. Then she does the same with him, making him blush._

"_Come back to us," she whispers to him. "Take care of each other."_

_She stands, and the king embraces her, kissing her hard enough to make the boy blush again. Then the queen is gone, and his hand finds the princess's as they are made to follow the king down the hall._

_The boy hears loud noises that he now realizes are the sounds of fighting. Down each hall they pass, the kingdom's knights are battling black-clad soldiers — the Evil Queen's men._

_The king easily takes out several of these soldiers; still, the boy's hand tightens on the wooden sword he still holds as he readies to attack if necessary._

_The futility of such a fight doesn't even occur to him._

_They reach a room at the end of the hall just as five enemy soldiers attack. The king pushes the children into the room, slicing his sword toward the soldiers in a deadly dance. The boy is amazed at how fast, how well the man fights, that even against such numbers he is easily winning._

_The king doesn't see a sixth coming up behind him, and the boy and girl yell at the same time to warn him. The boy wrenches his hand from hers and jumps forward, striking the soldier hard on the arm with his wooden sword as the king turns. Unfortunately, the arm closest to him is not the man's sword arm, and though the soldier is unbalanced by the attack, his blade still sinks into the king's abdomen. _

_Everything seems to slow, then. The boy sees the blood (he's never seen so much blood; he thinks he might be sick) and doesn't notice right away that the king is bringing up his own sword, plunging it into the black-clad soldier's chest. As that man falls, his blade is pulled from the king, and there is even more blood. The princess is screaming and hugging her father, and her green dress is marred by splotches of red. The boy feels helpless; he has no idea what to do._

_The king tries to speak, motioning him closer. The man points behind them at a wooden wardrobe in the center of the room, a small door set in the front._

"_Killian," he says faintly. "Take Emma. Wardrobe. You'll be in … a new world. She can break the curse. Keep … safe."_

_The boy freezes for a moment, then he sees a group of enemy soldiers coming their way, a wall of black, and pulls on the princess's arm._

"_We have to go," he says._

_She ignores him, and he yanks harder, pulling her away from her father, who's now still on the floor._

"_Move!" he orders, and she obeys, tears streaming down her face._

_He throws open the door to the wardrobe and pushes her in, folding himself into the tight space with her._

"_Papa!" she yells, reaching for the door before he shuts it with a snap and they're swallowed by darkness._

* * *

Killian Jones awoke with a gasp, sitting straight up in bed. His heart pounded as he tried to catch his breath, clutching at his chest.

That damned dream.

He fell back, wincing at the sweat-soaked sheets under him, and turned to the clock. Only a few minutes to five. He knew from long experience that he'd not get back to sleep anyway, so he pushed out of bed and stripped off his sleep pants and underwear on his way to the shower.

He stayed a long time under the hot spray, letting the water wash away the remnants of the dream. Each time he had it, he remembered more of it and it seemed to linger longer in his mind.

He'd had it off-and-on for five years now, since the first time he'd taken a special job from an outfit labeling itself the Home Office.

He'd only met two of their people, a woman named Tamara and her partner, Greg, and they seemed to know next to nothing about him. They knew him only as Sam Bellamy, and mostly they communicated with him through the Internet. That was the way he liked it.

He'd early on started taking the names of pirates as his aliases; the police never caught on, but a reporter following his case had spotted the pattern years ago. She'd nicknamed him Hook, after one of the most famous fictional pirates — and one of the pirate names he'd never actually used. Still, the mystery surrounding him was amusing — and useful. His reputation depended on nobody knowing who Killian Jones was — not the clients, not the marks, not the women that he often used as a cover for his covert activities.

Killian was never one to believe in magic, or anything he couldn't see, touch or take for himself, but he couldn't deny the jolt he'd felt upon touching the first item the Home Office asked him to acquire.

It was just a rock, at least on the surface; it fit nicely in his palm and almost seemed to hum as it changed color, like a mood ring. He knew going in that it was more than it appeared for the simple reason that the client was willing to pay half a million dollars for him to retrieve it from a safe at a private home in Venice. He'd charmed his way into an exclusive party by way of a lovely young widow and had been in and out of the safe before midnight, leaving no evidence behind him.

But there was something about the rock.

_Magic_, Tamara had told him. He was still skeptical, though he couldn't forget the way the rock had felt, almost alive in his palm. And though a part of him wanted to refuse any more work from this Home Office, they paid _very_ well. Though he had more money than he could spend now, the part of him that remembered being broke and hungry still had a hard time turning away from a huge payday.

Almost as much of a draw was the thrill of the job. Many of the "artifacts" they wanted him to steal were nearly impossible to get to, which is why they needed him. And Killian Jones did love a challenge.

Unfortunately, it was like the special artifacts sparked something within him. At first the dream happened sporadically. Once every few months became once a month. Then it was once a week. Lately, it had progressed to several times a week. It almost seemed like a countdown, a warning that something was drawing near, and he very much did not want to know what it was.

He wondered sometimes if the dream was a bit of memory, twisted somehow by years of reading too much fantasy literature. He was an orphan, and an accident at 8 years old had robbed him of his past. Apparently there wasn't much of interest to remember, anyway. Nobody had ever claimed him, and he'd learned to fend for himself, running away from the foster care system at 15. He was handy at thievery, and despite a rough time the first few years on his own, he'd become quite adept at using his less legal skills to make an excellent living.

He'd had the feeling lately that his luck was about to run out. Maybe it was the dream. Maybe he needed a vacation. Or maybe he was just losing it. But he felt that it might be time to move on from Manhattan, to start somewhere fresh, perhaps back to Europe for a few years. And it was definitely time to cut his ties with the Home Office. He'd made quite a lot of money off them, true, but something about their organization seemed off to him. The twin lures of a big paycheck and bigger challenge were enough to drown out his doubts for a while, but his instincts were all but screaming at him now to stay away.

So naturally, when he'd dried off, pulled on a worn pair of jeans and settled in front of his computer, the first message he saw was from Tamara.

The Home Office had another job for him, and she wanted to meet.

He rubbed his hand over his face, considering. He couldn't help the rush he got at the thought of another next-to-impossible job, but his gut was telling him that this Home Office was shady as hell and couldn't be trusted.

Finally he typed up a quick response, letting her know he was too busy for another job right now.

She must have been waiting, because he hadn't even had time to open another email before she responded.

The subject line said "$5 MILLION."

He hovered his cursor over the email, staring at the "$5 million." The most any of their jobs had paid was $2 million, and he never even saw what that artifact was, as the owner had kept it in a locked wooden box. He could easily have picked the lock, of course, but some instinct had kept him from doing so. What, he wondered, would tempt them to offer so much?

Cursing under his breath, he opened the email. There were no words, only a photo. It showed a stunning blonde, wearing a low-cut white dress. As gorgeous as she was, his attention was immediately drawn to the gold and emerald flower pendant around her neck.

It was the necklace from his dream.

* * *

Every Starbucks was the same, no matter the city. Tucked into a table in the corner, Killian felt like he could be anywhere. He should, he knew, be _anywhere but here_. He should delete Tamara's email and close that account, should pack up the few belongings that meant anything to him and take off, find a new place.

But since he'd seen the necklace, there was no chance he wouldn't take the job. He had questions, and he wanted answers. Who was the blonde, and why was he dreaming of her necklace? Was there some connection between the two of them?

He sipped his cafe mocha and waited for Tamara to show. The shop was crowded with people on their way to work; except for a few glances from women, nobody even noticed him sitting there. He was just another guy in worn jeans and a black T-shirt, eyes glued to his smartphone, seemingly ignoring the world around him.

He finally looked up from his phone when Tamara slid into the seat across from him, smiling brightly. "Sam! It's great to see you," she said.

He smirked. Tamara was a beautiful woman, and she'd made it clear in the past that she wouldn't be opposed to mixing business with pleasure, but his instincts told him from the start that that would be a mistake. "I'm sure it is, love. Unfortunately, I'm in a bit of a rush."

Her smile dimmed, and she was clearly biting back an annoyed response. Killian mentally added that to his list of reasons to be suspicious. He never trusted a person who was afraid to speak his or her mind.

On the other hand, he rarely trusted anyone, so perhaps he was being a little hard on the woman.

With an annoyed sigh, she pulled an envelope out of her bag, sliding it across the table, slipping a flash drive underneath it at the same time.

He palmed the flash drive, stuffing it in his pocket before opening the envelope. It was an invitation to a gala to raise money for a children's hospital in Boston.

"A fund-raiser?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "I am, of course, a model of philanthropy, but a party is hardly my highest priority right now."

"The blonde, Emma Swan, will be there," she said in a low voice. "And most likely, she'll be wearing a very lovely necklace that my employers are interested in."

He nodded, tapping his fingers lightly on the invitation. Her employers weren't the only ones interested in that necklace. Or the blonde. He slid the invitation back into the envelope and took a last sip of his coffee. Saluting her with the cup, he stood. "A pleasure as always, Tamara. I'll be in touch."

* * *

Back home, he made a beeline for his secure laptop, impatiently sliding the flash drive home.

It was time to find out everything he could on one Emma Swan.

Skimming the file, he hit the highlights. _Single, 27, Boston native. Mother of one boy. Works as a security expert at her father's company._

Killian laughed shortly, feeling the blood rush set in. They wanted him to steal a necklace, worn by a security expert in a crowded ballroom full of VIPs.

Sounded exactly like his kind of job.


	2. Chapter 2

_I remember a woman, my mother. My biological mother, long, dark hair, wide smile. I remember warm hugs and a scent of something floral. Something nice, peaceful. I remember dancing with her around a room full of dolls and stuffed animals, a happy place. And my father, tall and blond, full of laughter. Cutting in to our dance, until we are a circle of three, holding hands and spinning in a circle laughing … I remember_

"I remember a lot of bullshit," Emma Swan muttered, tossing her pen to the side and slamming the notebook shut. She leaned forward, head on the desk, and sighed.

She had hesitated to go to a shrink to begin with, but something within her couldn't rest until she knew the truth about her past. Dr. Anderson was well-known for helping people remember and work through past traumas, but she was starting to think his reputation was crap. He had her writing down all her "memories" of the past, before she was adopted, and it was all ridiculous. All she could tell from re-reading these journal entries was that she may or may not have had a dark-haired mother and blond father, and that they probably were a couple of crackheads who sat her on the couch watching Disney movies on repeat while they were out scoring drugs or whatever.

Maybe it was better not to remember at all.

Her phone buzzed, and she glanced at it, not at all surprised to see that it was another text from Neal.

She was glad he was out of prison, really she was, and despite their past it warmed her heart to see him reconnecting with Henry. But he'd been bugging her for two days to meet with him about "something important," and she just didn't have the time.

Saturday was the Children's Hospital fund-raising gala, and it might be the biggest night of her professional life. Her father's company was providing security for the event, and he'd put Emma in charge. It was a test, she knew.

Michael Swan and his father had started Swan Security years before, beginning with home security and branching out over time into bigger projects. He'd always dreamed of bringing _his_ son in as a partner one day. Unfortunately for Michael, his son was more interested in science than security, and his daughter was actually the one with an interest in the family business.

Emma knew her father loved her, but he seemed to be having some trouble accepting her in the job, despite how she'd taken to it from the start. She wondered, sometimes, if his reluctance was more about the fact that she was a woman or the fact that she was adopted. Neither option made her happy, but for different reasons.

At any rate, she'd worked harder than anyone else at the firm and had proven herself repeatedly to be worthy of his trust.

This job was a big one, as hundreds of wealthy and powerful people would be making an appearance at this fund-raiser. If she managed it smoothly, her mom had told her privately, her father planned to offer her a partnership in Swan Security.

And everything _would_ go perfectly. She'd studied the ballroom and its in-house security like it was an exam she had to ace. She'd walked every inch of the place looking for weak spots and reinforced those with extra cameras and a rotating security patrol. Her contingency plans had contingency plans. She'd be on-site Saturday, mingling with the crowd and supervising her people, but if everything went as planned she wouldn't have to do a thing.

She glanced at her phone again, then sighed and texted Neal back.

_**Talk tomorrow when you pick Henry up?**_

As if work was not stressful enough, she was going to have to deal with Henry's first night away from her. She had full custody, and she didn't have to let Neal see her son at all, but Henry was excited about how they planned to "camp out" in a tent inside Neal's apartment. Neal had really gotten himself together, and she wanted Henry to know his father, but it was still tough to give up any of her precious time with the kid.

Standing and straightening her clothes, she double-checked that she had everything in order for her last walk-through of the ballroom — with her father, the building manager and the charity's event planner. It was only her professional future and her relationship with her father at stake.

No pressure there.

* * *

The walk-through went perfectly, and she could tell she'd impressed the building manager and the event planner with her setup. Her dad, of course, still managed to find fault with some of her plans, so she knew she'd be up all night reviewing her work, looking for holes in the security.

She sighed, telling herself that he would be just as hard on any other employee; surely he was just doing his job, trying to give them the best possible security.

She unlocked the door to her parents' house and slipped inside. "Mom? You home?"

"Mom!" Henry came rushing out of the kitchen and slammed into her for a hug.

She smiled and picked him up, squeezing him until he begged, giggling, for mercy. She instantly felt better. Nothing like a 10-year-old to brighten your day.

"Hey, kid. Where's grandma?"

"Kitchen," he said, laughing as she set him down. "We're making cookies!"

"I thought as much," she said, swiping some flour off his cheek. "I want in on this action."

They trooped into the kitchen, catching Jeannie Swan sneaking a bite of raw cookie dough.

"Mother!" Emma gasped in fake horror. "You always told me not to do that!"

"Busted!" Henry chimed in.

The older woman laughed. "Some things are worth the risk."

Emma leaned on the counter beside her. "You're such a rebel, Mom."

Jeannie slid a cookie sheet into the oven. "Henry, will you set the timer?"

"Awesome!" Her mom's oven timer was shaped like a frog, and Henry never seemed to tire of using it.

"How'd it go?" her mom asked.

She shrugged. "The clients are very happy with the plans."

Jeannie knew, of course, what she didn't say. "Your father is picky, Emma. It's one thing that makes him good at the job. But he's very proud of you, you know."

Actually, she didn't know, but it was pointless to have this conversation again. After a moment, she felt her mom's arm around her. "And so am I, honey."

Emma blinked back tears, thinking — not for the first time — how lucky she was to have been adopted by the Swans. She might have only false, ridiculous memories of her biological parents, but she remembered so clearly the day Michael and Jeannie had taken her home with them. It was supposed to be a temporary arrangement, but once she'd been with them for a few weeks, Jeannie had asked her if she'd like to stay with them forever.

They'd been the only parents she'd known ever since.

A year later, they'd had a surprise baby of their own, and Emma had become a big sister. Though they weren't related by blood, Emma had loved Matt fiercely from the first moment her parents brought him home from the hospital.

She knew a lot of other orphans weren't as lucky as she was, and she tried to remember to be grateful even when things weren't going so well.

"I think we'll have pizza tonight," her mom announced. "Will you two stay?"

"Cookies _and_ pizza," Emma said, exchanging a grin with Henry. "You're the best grandma ever. We're sold!"

* * *

_**Plz call me back.**_

Emma growled at the text and shoved her phone back in her clutch.

Neal had the worst timing ever. He knew she had to work tonight, and she'd already told him that taking Henry out of state for a week was out of the question. But, in true Neal Cassidy style, he was trying to find an angle, trying to con her into giving him his way.

Apparently the fact that he'd done a stint in prison for conning people out of a lot of money wasn't enough for him to learn his lesson.

Blowing out a breath, she put her ex out of her mind and focused on her job. She slipped through the swelling crowd, checking with her people and generally keeping an eye on things. The orchestra was playing some Cole Porter tune, people were dancing and sipping champagne, and things seemed to be going smoothly.

She even got a "well done, hon" from her father when he stopped by briefly to check things out for himself. It was a little embarrassing that at nearly 28 years old she was still seeking his approval; she wondered if she'd ever outgrow that.

On her next circuit of the ballroom, she noticed something going on at the entrance just past the metal detectors — a couple of her guys surrounding a guest. She knew they could probably handle it, but since she was close, she joined them.

"Everything OK, guys?"

"Aye," the guest answered for them, waving at the metal detector wand. "I was just informing these gentlemen that I have a bit of metal in my arm from a childhood accident."

He turned fully to face her, and she drew in a breath at the sight of him. He was dangerously attractive, with wild, dark hair and a beard with just the right amount of scruff. His eyes — lord, amazing, gorgeous blue eyes — scanned her from the top of her head down the deep v-neck of her chiffon gown and back up again. She could almost physically feel his eyes on her body, and her pulse sped in response. A slow grin spread across his face, upping the hotness quotient by a thousand.

She was sure she would remember meeting a man who looked like that, but something about him seemed very familiar. Maybe she'd seen his photo somewhere?

"Then again," he said slowly, holding his arms wide, "for safety's sake, perhaps you should pat me down thoroughly … just to be certain I'm no villain."

She rolled her eyes, waving her guys back to work, very determinedly _not_ imagining what it would be like to get her hands on the handsome stranger. The guy wore the hell out of a tux, and she had a feeling he'd look even better without it.

Which was an idea she was going to put out of her mind immediately.

"That won't be necessary, Mr. …?"

He held out his hand. "Rackham, Jack Rackham."

She frowned, shaking the offered hand. It was warm, and his fingers trailed over her palm while letting go, as if reluctant to break contact. "Like the pirate?"

She wondered if she imagined that his smile dimmed for a moment before bouncing back. "Well, not many know of him."

"You'd be surprised," she said. Anyone who happened to watch the recent cable series about pirates would know, though she didn't say so. "You know, I don't recall seeing your name on the guest list, Mr. Rackham."

"It's Jack," he said, stepping closer — deliberately into her personal space. "There must be hundreds of names on that guest list."

"I have an excellent memory."

"Well, Miss …?"

"Emma Swan. I'm in charge of security tonight."

"Well, Miss Swan," he said, pulling out an invitation. "I'm a guest of Mrs. O'Bryan this evening."

"Ahhh." Ashley O'Bryan was a widow well-known for keeping company with attractive younger men. Her exploits with her brainless, built boy-toys were the subject of much gossip in town. This guy was a little older than her typical flavor of the month, and a lot more interesting. "Forgive me, but you don't seem like her usual … date."

"Shall I take that as a compliment?"

God, he was still totally in her space, staring at her lips in a way that started a warmth in her belly … and what the hell was she doing flirting with one of Ashley O'Bryan's himbos?

"Take it however you like," she said politely, stepping back. "Now, I've got to get back to work. Enjoy your evening."

"Perhaps the lady will save a dance for me later?"

She laughed. Maybe he didn't realize just how possessive the Merry Widow was? "I think you'll be … otherwise engaged, Mr. Rackham," she said, slipping into the crowd.

She didn't breathe easy until she could no longer feel his eyes on her.

* * *

Killian watched her disappear into the mass of people, absently scratching his neck.

As attractive as she'd appeared in photographs, Emma Swan was even more beautiful in person. And there was just something about her, something familiar, and not just the pendant ornamenting her very lovely chest.

His original plan was to charm her into a dance or two; he was certain he could relieve her of the pendant without her even realizing it was gone. He'd done it before.

But now he was reconsidering.

He wanted her, was incredibly drawn to her, and he didn't think he had imagined the spark of interest in her eyes — at least until he had claimed to be a guest of the widow O'Bryan. Of course, the woman wasn't even going to be here tonight, so it had seemed like a safe excuse for not being on the invite list.

It had been a slight miscalculation, though. He'd seen the way Emma's appraising look had changed to dismissal. He was, as far as she was concerned, nothing but some gigolo looking to romance his way into a comfortable living.

But there was that initial attraction, and he could work with that.

In fact, he suspected he would very much enjoy working with that. If he had his way, they would _both_ enjoy it immensely, and he'd have that necklace — and hopefully the answers he sought.


	3. Chapter 3

He spent two hours watching Emma. She moved through the crowd, gracefully mingling, chatting with guests and brushing off a number of obviously interested men. She carried a glass of champagne that she never sipped from and managed to make five complete circuits of the building, briefly checking in with each of her employees.

Several times, she stopped to check her phone, frowning at whatever she saw there.

He wanted to know who was calling or texting her; he wanted to know _everything_ about her.

After her second pass-through of the ballroom, he intercepted her near the bar.

"Miss Swan, perhaps I might have that dance now?"

She tilted her head and him, frowning. "Mr. Rackham. It's funny; I haven't seen Mrs. O'Bryan at all this evening."

Clearly, she wasn't going to let that go. Perhaps claiming to be the widow's latest conquest wasn't his best idea. "Yes, unfortunately, I received a text from her that she's not going to make it."

"Mmm-hmmm."

He didn't quite like the way she was looking at him; he felt like she saw entirely too much. Fortunately, he knew the effect he had on women, and he used it to full advantage. Stepping closer, he crowded into her personal space and took the still-full flute from her hand.

"One dance, before I go?" He sat the glass on the bar, hand slipping into hers.

She licked her lips, drawing his eyes there like a magnet. With a sigh, she tightened her hand in his and nodded toward the dance floor. "One dance. I do love this song."

He recognized the first notes of "At Last," as they found a clear space. Swan had a romantic streak, then. He filed that away for future reference as he pulled her into his arms.

She raised her eyebrows as he tugged her closer, leaving little space between them; surprisingly, she made no move to pull away. He bit back a smug grin at the small, unsteady gasp that escaped her as their hips swayed together momentarily. Their eyes caught and held, and he saw a perfect reflection of the thrum of desire that built in his blood, nearly making him forget why he was here in the first place.

His fingers itched to touch her, and he gave in to the urge, moving his hand from her waist to trace the chain of her necklace, feeling the metal and the silk of her skin under his fingertips. Her gasp was louder this time, accompanied by a shiver she couldn't hide. He wished they were alone on the dance floor, wanted to follow his fingers with his mouth and see and feel and taste her response.

Instead, he cleared his throat and spoke. "This pendant, it's lovely."

"It's … it's a family heirloom," she said, so softly he could barely hear her over the music.

He knew he should stop touching her, but he couldn't seem to make himself. He was surprised she hadn't shut him down already, and he wondered if she felt the same pull toward him. Passion, lust, attraction — whatever he'd felt before was nothing to the need he was feeling now. The strange part was, it wasn't only sexual. He felt there was some sort of connection between them, though they'd never met.

He finally reached the pendant itself, unable to hold back a shudder as he touched it and felt the familiar jolt.

Magic.

Of course, he'd expected it. Why else would the Home Office be willing to pay so much for one piece of jewelry? What he hadn't expected was that the pendant would feel … familiar. It was increasingly hard to breathe, and he felt suddenly like he was on the edge of something important, something he should already know …

"Mr. Rackham!"

He dropped the pendant, which he realized he'd been clutching in his hand. He half-expected Swan to take a swing at him, and he knew he'd deserve it by the way he was groping her — well, groping her necklace, anyway. They weren't even dancing anymore.

But she didn't seem angry; in fact, she looked worried.

"Are you okay? You got really pale all of a sudden. We have a doctor on call if you need one."

"I could use some air," he said, and it wasn't a lie. He'd never had a reaction quite like that to any of the artifacts before; truthfully he'd never had a reaction like that to a woman, either, and he wondered if there was a connection.

She nodded briskly, seemingly back to herself when not in his arms, and led him across the ballroom to a set of doors that opened onto a dimly-lit balcony.

The cool air instantly cleared his head, but he still allowed Emma to guide him to the wrought-iron railing overlooking a garden below, where twinkling white lights twisted around trees and highlighted paths into the darkness.

"Better?" she asked.

"Much." He shucked off his jacket and offered it to her. "You must be cold, though."

"I … a little," she admitted. She made to take the jacket, but he stepped closer instead, slipping it over her shoulders and drawing his hands down her bare arms. She shivered again, and he didn't think it was only the chill in the air affecting her.

He could — should — take the pendant now, he knew. Could lift it right from her lovely neck and disappear while she was still too distracted to notice. It would probably be safer than taking her to bed; he had the feeling that just one night with Emma Swan would never be enough. Maybe it would be better to walk away now, never see her again.

"Are you sure you don't need a doctor?"

"Why would I need a physician when I have you to care for me, love?" He couldn't seem to stop himself from touching her, and his fingers moved to trace her jaw.

"I was just doing my job." Her level voice was a direct contrast to the way her eyes fluttered shut as she leaned into his touch.

"You're very passionate … about your work."

"Mr. R—" He rubbed his thumb over her bottom lip, suddenly violently opposed to hearing her call him by his alias.

Why should he care? It was ridiculous, but he wanted to hear his name — his real name — on her lips.

His confused thoughts were immediately cut off when Emma slipped a hand behind his neck and pulled him into a kiss. His mind blanked for a moment before instinct kicked in and he pulled her flush against him and tilted his head, deepening the kiss, tongue slipping in to tease hers.

He flashed with heat from head to foot, and a wave of dizziness hit him. And then the images started.

As Emma pulled away with a gasp, he stood stock still, _remembering_.

He dimly heard her apologize ("Oh God, I don't know why I … I shouldn't have done that") and could say nothing as she fled, dropping his jacket on the way. He couldn't speak, couldn't move, could only shake as the memories flooded his brain.

_His mother, beautiful and sad and sick — Liam saying goodbye, telling him to be a good boy — the letter, saying his brother was lost at sea — the kindness of the king and queen, taking him in — the princess, Princess Emma, his friend — golden curls and green eyes and spunk — the curse, "Come back to us, take care of each other"— an attack, the king being hurt — the darkness of the wardrobe and of the forest on the other side — curling his arm around the princess and promising her they would be fine — the police officers, the kind lady who said she would take them to their new home — the strange vehicle, Emma crying and a loud, screeching sound and crash —_

It was real.

All of it was real. The dreams he'd had. The magic. His purpose.

He had been meant to stay with Emma, to watch over her until she could break the curse.

And he had failed completely.

* * *

Emma felt drunk.

No, she felt drugged. She took a moment to ponder whether he could have slipped something into her drink before she remembered that she hadn't actually taken a drink all night. Besides, the further she got away from the man, the more clear-headed she felt.

It was all him.

She'd been attracted to men before, but never — not even with Neal, her first love — had she felt so drawn to one. She huffed as she remembered how she'd behaved, acting like a brainless, horny teenager. She hadn't even realized she was going to kiss him until she'd done it. They were so close, his thumb brushing her bottom lip, and she'd felt the overwhelming need to know what his mouth would feel like on hers.

She had kissed Ashley O'Bryan's boy toy.

Though really, she could hardly use the term "boy" when referring to him; she could almost still feel all the lean muscle of his body pressed up against hers and his mouth all but devouring her … and she should really, really stop thinking about that right now.

Sighing, she snagged another glass of champagne and sipped at it, wishing she could get something with a little more kick. The crowd was thinning now, some instinct that the party was winding down was making its way through the ballroom.

Emma spotted the event planner leaning against the bar, looking quite pleased with herself. Fund-raising must have gone well. Settling next to her, Emma chatted with her, absently watching people say goodbye to friends and frenemies on their way out. All the while, her mind focused on the man outside. Why had he come tonight if his wealthy mistress wasn't going to be here? Why had he flirted with her? What was it about him that turned her into a mess of uncontrollable hormones?

"I didn't see Ashley O'Bryan here tonight," she said casually.

The woman nodded. "Yes, I was hoping to see what ridiculous dress she would wear … and what her date would be like! But if I recall correctly, she sent a large donation a couple weeks ago with her apologies. She's in Bora Bora or the Caymans or someplace this whole month."

"Must be nice," Emma said, forcing a smile.

She continued to make small talk with the woman, but her mind was racing. He'd shown up with an invitation, which she hadn't even looked at, claiming to be meeting a woman who was never planning to show up in the first place. And his name, damn it. Jack Rackham, a pirate's name. She'd read articles about a thief, known as something cheesy — Blackbeard maybe? — who used pirates' names as aliases. She hadn't paid much attention since the guy had never been known to work in Boston, but that didn't mean he wouldn't.

Her eye caught on a older woman walking by wearing a jeweled necklace worth more than the house she grew up in, and she knew she had to see if he was at least still around. With a quick farewell to her companion, she made her way back to the balcony.

He was still there.

She let out the breath she'd been holding and wordlessly approached him. He stared at her, a smile playing at the edges of his mouth.

"You came back."

She stared back at him, wondering if he could really be the thief she suspected he was. Holding his eyes, she slipped the handcuffs out of her clutch. She reached for his hand, and before she could change her mind she snapped one cuff around his wrist and the other to the railing.

Instead of being angry, he looked amused.

"Do you always carry handcuffs in your purse? Swan, you're a woman after my own heart."

"I like to be prepared," she said, stepping back slightly. Actually, she'd run into an old family friend earlier, and the man had asked her to return the cuffs to her father. She wasn't even going to ask why a respected circuit court judge had needed some of Swan Security's handcuffs. There were things she didn't ever want to know.

But it certainly came in handy now.

"What's your name?" she asked. "Your real name."

"You know it," he said, tugging at the cuffs. "Is this really necessary, Swan? I can think of much more enjoyable ways of tying me up."

"It's not Jack Rackham," she said. "Though I gather you like to use a lot of pirates' names in your line of work."

He didn't even deny it, shrugging like it was no big deal.

"You're a smart one, love," he said. "Bloody brilliant, you are. But I meant what I said. You know my name; you've only forgotten."

She shook her head. "I don't know what game you're playing, but we've never met before tonight. I just want to know, what were you here to steal? Did you take it already?"

"Emma. We knew each other as children, played together. You know me." When she just shook her head again, he sighed. "Killian. It's Killian Jones."

She stepped back a pace, shocked. Killian Jones was a boy she remembered from her childhood. A boy with blue eyes and dark hair. She remembered play sword fights and imaginary adventures and his hand tight around hers when her father —

No. None of that was real.

"How do you know that name?" she hissed.

"It's me, Swan. I worked in the kitchens at the castle and we were tutored together by the cricket. I was there when the castle was attacked and your —"

"No." She was vibrating with anger by now. "How do you know all that? Did you break into my apartment? Did you read my journals? _What the hell kind of creep uses someone's childhood delusions against them_?"

"I've no idea what journals you're talking about, but Emma, it's not a delusion; it's all real. I was there. We were both there. I had forgotten everything until we kissed, but I've been dreaming about that last day for years now. I was supposed to protect you, to make sure you could break the curse. Swan, you have to listen to me."

She stepped closer, watching his face as he spoke, and she could tell he was speaking the truth — at least, what he believed was the truth. But it couldn't be true; that was crazy. So maybe he was nuts as well. She should go now, call the police. If he was this pirate thief, he belonged in jail, and if he was a nutcase, surely they could get him some help.

"You don't believe me."

"I believe that you believe what you're saying," she said.

"You think I'm crazy."

"I —" She wasn't sure what she was going to say, but it didn't matter when he grasped her arm and pulled her to him, crashing his lips against hers. On instinct, she kissed him back for a moment; she found she almost couldn't _not_ kiss him back.

With a frustrated growl, she pushed away from him. "What the hell?"

He sent her a cocky grin, but it didn't reach his eyes. He shrugged. "I remembered it all when you kissed me, so I was trying to return the favor."

"Well, thanks for that," she said sarcastically. "All I remember is that you're a crazy person, and possibly a thief. I'm calling the police; they can deal with you."

She could call from right there, keeping an eye on him, but even being in proximity to the guy was messing with her head. She started for the door, hesitating when he spoke again.

"I remember your green dress, with some kind of flowers on it. Buttercups? And it had blood all over it, blood from your father, the king."

She froze, feeling shock wash over her as she quickly stepped through the doors and headed down the hall toward the security room. She tried to steady her breathing, leaning against the wall outside the room. She had never told anybody about that, had never even written it in her journal because it was too much.

She remembered it so clearly. Her mother saying goodbye, her father fighting off a bunch of soldiers all dressed in black. She remembered the huff her father had made when he was stabbed; he hadn't even cried out. And there was blood everywhere.

Killian was there, trying to fight off an armed man with just a wooden sword. Killian, who was her best friend, keeping her safe, pushing her into the wardrobe. Saving her life.

She took a shaky breath and made to grab her mother's pendant. She was running back to the balcony before she even fully registered that it was gone. The bastard had conned her with stories of her past, just as she'd thought, and snatched the necklace right off her neck. Probably while he was kissing her.

She burst through the doors, groaning as she saw with her eyes what she'd already known deep down — he was gone.

The balcony was empty except for her father's handcuffs, dangling from the railing.


	4. Chapter 4

**Sorry for the delay. I had a major case of Captain Swan-induced ADD after the finale!**

* * *

Emma was exhausted. Her lower back was aching, her feet were killing her and even though it was nearly midnight, Neal was still texting her, refusing to take a hint. Slipping into her apartment, she closed the door and leaned on it, kicking off her heels with a heavy sigh. Her stomach rumbled, reminding her that she hadn't eaten in about 12 hours. She dropped her head back with an audible thump, pondering whether or not she had anything edible in the house and if it was worth the effort to check.

Thinking about that was a nice distraction from remembering her own epic screw-up: namely, the fact that she had basically escorted a master thief through her own security, thrown herself at him and let him steal a family heirloom right off her neck. The worst of it was, if she wanted to report her necklace stolen, she'd almost certainly have to tell her father what she'd done.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

She glared down the dark hallway, remembering that he must have broken into her place at some point and read her journals. There's no other way he could have come up with all that stuff about her parents, their kingdom and Killian Jones.

She tried to ignore the voice in her head reminding her that he knew things that she'd never written down anywhere.

None of that was real. It couldn't be.

Heaving another sigh, she plodded down the hall toward the living room, planning to collapse on the couch and forget for a little while that this night had even happened.

Unfortunately, the couch was already occupied.

Jack Rackham-slash-Killian Jones —or whatever the hell his name was — was sprawled on her couch like he owned it. He'd tossed his jacket over the back of the couch, lost the tie and unbuttoned the shirt an indecent amount, showing off the dark hair curling over his chest. He was reading a book — she couldn't see what it was — and drinking a beer, which he used to salute her just as though he hadn't stolen from her a couple hours before.

"Swan, I thought you'd never get here. The gala's been over for hours. You work too hard." He sat up, tossing the book on her coffee table while she stood frozen. He sat the beer next to it on a coaster. _He might be a thief, but at least he's considerate_, she thought, only slightly hysterically.

He stood, and the motion released her from her own momentary paralysis; turning, she ran for the door. She never even heard him behind her until he caged her, hands planted on the door on either side of her, body pressed against her back. She tried to stomp on his instep — which would have been much more effective had she still been wearing her heels — but he anticipated the move, pulling his foot out of the way and pressing her more firmly into the door.

"You bastard," she hissed, trying — and failing — to access more of her self-defense training. What was next? A sharp elbow to the gut? She didn't even think she had room to try that.

"Swan. _Emma_. I'm not here to hurt you," he said. "We just need to talk."

He sounded sincere, but that evening had made it crystal clear that she couldn't trust her instincts where he was concerned. Before she could decide how to react, she saw something flash out of the corner of her eye. She turned her head to find him dangling her pendant in front of her face.

"Look, I've brought your necklace back. A peace offering?"

Taking a deep breath, she turned slowly around, gritting her teeth as her body brushed his on the way.

Interestingly, she saw him swallow hard and take a half-step back so they weren't touching anymore. She held out her hand, and he dropped the pendant into it, slowly letting the chain follow until he folded her hand around the whole thing.

"I'm sorry, love," he said in a low voice, running his thumb over her knuckles before releasing her hand. "I simply thought if I took the necklace and then returned it, you might realize that you can trust me."

She laughed shortly. "Fool me once …"

"Look, when I took this job, I didn't know who you were." He held her eyes with his, as though begging her to see the truth in his words. "I didn't remember anything. But now I know, you're my … princess. I'm supposed to protect you, Emma. I'm supposed to help you break the curse."

"The curse." She nodded, smirking. "_Right_."

"I know how it sounds. But it's the truth."

"Okay, if it's honesty hour: Were you there for my necklace all along?"

He sighed. "Aye. I was hired to take it. But I was planning to keep it for myself, if you want the whole truth. I've been dreaming about it for years, and I thought it might help me remember my past. Instead, _you_ helped me remember; it all came back when we kissed."

She frowned at the mention of the kiss, then focused on something less personal. "Why would anyone want you to steal this? The emerald is probably worth something, but most of its value to me is sentimental."

He took her hand again, still curled around the pendant. "It's magic, Swan. Can't you feel it?"

She definitely felt something, but she was pretty sure it was more about him and less about the necklace. She mentally kicked herself. The guy was a thief. He'd stolen from her and broken into her apartment. He'd physically prevented her from leaving. She should be afraid — or at the very least, angry. She should be using his distraction to kick him in the junk and get away, grab her gun, call the police.

She shouldn't be thinking about the kiss or how just touching his hand made her feel warm all over.

_Dammit, Emma, focus._

"I don't feel anything," she lied. "And I don't believe in magic."

He frowned. "Neither did I, love, but that doesn't mean it isn't real."

When she just stared at him, he sighed, scratching absently behind his ear. "Look, Swan —" A particularly loud and insistent rumble from her stomach interrupted whatever he'd been about to say, and she blushed as he laughed. "Come on, then. You must have some food around here. You eat, and I'll tell you what I remember. Then you can decide if you're going to have me arrested or let me go."

He turned his back on her and headed for the kitchen. She had a taser within easy reach; she could grab it and take him out. She could run, barricade herself in her room (where she had a gun), call the police.

Instead, she followed him wordlessly into the kitchen.

He headed straight for the fridge and started rummaging around.

"Not much in here," he said. "Hmmm, how does a grilled cheese sound?"

Cautiously, she watched him as she slipped onto a stool at the big center island counter. "Sounds good."

It was one of the most surreal moments of her life, sitting in her kitchen watching a thief make her a grilled cheese sandwich while he told her a fairy tale.

He told her about his mother, a lovely, sad woman whose husband had left her with two sons and no money. She was ill and died when he was very young, leaving his older brother to care for him. Liam was 10 years older than Killian and had entered the royal navy at 16, leaving his brother in the care of an aunt. When Liam had died in service of the crown six months later and could no longer pay for his brother's upkeep, the aunt tossed the boy, only 6, out on the street.

Emma ate her sandwich and listened in silence, trying to ignore the feeling that she knew all this. She'd heard it before. She felt a sort of kinship with him, even if his story was ridiculous. He was an orphan, like her, but unlike her, he'd never found a home.

"Another naval officer knew about me," he said. "I guess it must have gotten back to your father, because one day a couple of the dwarves found me on the streets and brought me to him."

"My father, the king," she said.

He smiled. "Right. He said my brother was a hero, and he wanted to help me. He offered me work in the kitchens and a place to live, only so long as I always attended lessons with his daughter. You."

She pushed her empty plate away. "You understand that this all sounds crazy."

"Aye." He leaned on the counter. "The last few years, I've done some jobs for a group called the Home Office. Most of the items I've … procured for them have a certain feel to them. It's hard to explain, but it's like your pendant."

"Magic?" She didn't believe, of course, but she wanted — needed — to hear it all.

"Magic. The night after I took the first item, that's when I started having the dream. Of the last day at the castle, when the curse hit. It took a while before I remembered more details, but I can see it so clearly now."

He spoke of her mother saying goodbye, of hallways filled with the sights and sounds of battle, of her father fighting off clusters of black knights single-handedly. And she could see it all in her head, just like her memories; worse, she knew what came next. She couldn't stand to hear him talk about watching her father be stabbed, maybe killed. Though she told herself over and over that it wasn't real, the memory still burned.

"No," she interrupted. "I don't want to hear the rest."

He paused, looking at her — looking _into_ her — before nodding slowly. "After … after everything, we went through the wardrobe. It was made from a tree, and it was a very tight fit, but we managed. There was kind of a rush … it's hard to explain."

"Like the first drop on a roller coaster," she said softly.

"_Exactly_ like that," he said, nodding. "And when I finally opened the door again, we were in the forest. We'd no idea where we were. We could have still been in the Enchanted Forest, but it felt different somehow. And then when I saw the cars and electric lights I knew we were in a different realm."

Someone had called the police, and Killian had made up a story. "You hadn't said a word since we came through, and you wouldn't even answer me when I asked if you were all right. So I told them that I was an orphan, and I'd found you wandering in the forest alone. I said you'd only told me your name was Emma, and hadn't said another word."

He paused, as though to let her speak, but she didn't know what to say. She thought she remembered, but this part was much less clear in her mind. She'd never even tried to write these memories down.

"It wasn't until the social worker was taking us to a group home that I realized I should have told them we were siblings, so we wouldn't be separated. But I was only 8; I just told them the first thing that came to mind. I was trying to figure out how to get around that when the accident happened. I think we were hit by another car; it's not very clear. When I woke up later in the hospital, I didn't remember anything, not until the dreams, not until I met you."

Emma felt strange, almost as though there was a disconnect between her body and her mind. Everything around her slowed, except her heart, which seemed to be about to beat right out of her chest. If she accepted what he said, her whole life could change. If it was true, then her parents — her mother, at least — and the other people of the Enchanted Forest were depending on her. It wasn't a responsibility that she'd asked for, and she didn't want it, couldn't handle it. She barely had a handle on her life as it was. Henry was her priority, and her job. And what the hell would she tell her parents?

"You should go," she said, finally, staring at the countertop instead of looking at him. "I don't … I don't believe in any of this. I can't — I have too much to deal with already, I can't be responsible for your delusions, too."

He moved around the island, standing close but not touching her.

"Swan." When she didn't answer, he sighed and snagged a pad of paper and a pen she had at the end of the island. He scribbled a number on it and pushed it toward her. "I'm not going to push you, but here's my cell. Call me when you decide to accept who you are."

She didn't move from her spot until she heard the front door close behind him, then she followed his path and locked the door and deadbolt behind him. She stood, leaning her forehead against the door before she pushed away and went straight to her desk in the spare room that doubled as her office.

Digging through the bottom drawer, she pulled out the annoyingly thin file she'd used to document her failed search for her birth parents years ago. One of the first things in the file was a news article from a paper in Maine, telling of a girl found wandering in the woods alone.

She was found, the article said, by an 8-year-old orphan boy.

* * *

"No," Emma said, glaring at her ex over the table in the diner. "At this point all you're doing is pissing me off."

"But I really want him to meet my father."

"I get that. I do. But honestly? You and Henry barely know each other. He had a great time staying at your place the other night, but a week away from home, away from me, in another state is just out of the question right now."

She stuck her hand in her jacket pocket, absently slipping her fingers over the folded square of paper with Killian's phone number on it. True to his word, he had given her space; it had been four days since she'd seen him. She hadn't called, wasn't sure she was going to call, but she had taken to carrying the number with her all the time.

"Look," she said. "It's been years since you've seen your father, Neal. You said your mom left him and took you, right? Well, I don't know the details, but she must have had a reason for it."

"He had … some anger issues," he said quietly. "But he's over that now, I'm sure of it. Mom had no right to keep me from him."

"Yeah," she said carefully. "But the road works both ways, right? He could have come to see you, too."

"He couldn't really do that."

"Why not? He lives in Maine, not on Mars." She sighed. They were getting off track, and it didn't really matter anyway. "Hey, it's great that you get to see him. But you need to take this chance to get to know him again, without bringing Henry into it. If things go well, maybe he could come to visit. Or next summer, maybe you could take Henry there for a weekend or something."

He sighed, rubbing his hand over his face. "Okay, you're right, you're right. It's just … I've kind of been seeing someone. It's pretty serious."

She felt her stomach drop. It was just a reflex, really; she in no way wanted Neal back. But the idea that he could be in a serious, happy relationship while she was still alone stung a lot. She'd loved him so much when she was younger, and she'd ended up pregnant and alone. If she hadn't had her parents' help, she'd probably have had to give Henry up. A few years later, Neal had come back to town; it was quite a shock for him to find out that he was a father, and it was quite a shock to her to find out that he was going to jail soon afterward.

"And?"

"And Tamara … that's her name, she thought it would be a fun way for her to get to know Henry."

_Over my dead body._

She tossed some money on the table to cover her share of the lunch. "I can't let you take him to Maine, Neal. Besides, Friday's my birthday, and we have a family thing that night."

"Right, your birthday," he said, grinning. "Happy Birthday, Ems. Since I won't see him for a week, do you think I could pick the kiddo up from school Friday? We could get ice cream or something before I drop him at your folks' place."

"No ice cream," she said, chuckling as his face dropped. Sometimes he was just like a big kid himself. "We'll have plenty of that Friday night. But there is a great shaved ice place in the park by his school."

"Great! That'll be fun," he said. "I really appreciate it."

"You're welcome. And good luck with your father."

Back in her car, she pulled the phone number out of her pocket, smoothing it open. It was already looking worn from all the times she'd already looked at it.

Even Neal was confronting his past and looking for a happy future. Shouldn't she be able to do the same?

Sighing, she refolded the paper and stuck it back in her pocket.

After her birthday, she'd spend the weekend trying to decide what she really wanted to do.


End file.
